[…] as London light […] grows between the faces of the mullioned windows […]

The moment I saw the sign, tension unspooled inside me. Haven's Bay was the place I went when I needed to get away, although I hadn't been here in almost four years. It was home in a way that nowhere else was.

Paradoxically, the deluge of writing itself contributes to declining readership. It's not just that if you're writing then you can't be reading. It's also that the sheer volume of what is now available acts as a disincentive to settle down with a single text. The literary equivalent of channel surfing replaces the prolonged concentration required to tackle a book.

The falſe Dueſſa leauing noyous Night, / Returnd to ſtately pallace of Dame Pryde;[…]